The car drops me off at my building, and Thad walks me to the entrance. In the doorway, he backs me against the wall, his body pressing against mine, and kisses me with an intensity that feels even more possessive than the kiss he gave me at the bar. His hands are on my waist, my hips, sliding lower, and I have to physically push against his chest to create space between us.
"Thad," I say, breathless. "Not here. Someone might see."
He glances around the empty lobby, and I can see the frustration in his eyes, but he steps back. "Right. Of course. Wouldn't want to damage your reputation."
"I'll see you tomorrow," I say quickly. "You said you wanted to do brunch?"
"Brunch." He nods, but his jaw is tight. "Sure. I'll text you in the morning."
He kisses me again, briefer this time but still possessive, his hand cupping my face. Then he's gone, striding back to the waiting car. I'm left standing in the doorway, trying to catch my breath.
Upstairs in my dorm, I lean against the door and close my eyes. The relief I feel is so profound it's almost shameful. I should miss him. I should be sad that our evening is over. Instead, I feel like I've been released from prison.
I change into pajamas and wash my face, scrubbing away the makeup, and stare at myself in the mirror. Who is this woman who smiles and nods and lets her fiancé order her meals and plan her entire future?
I don't recognize her.
Or maybe I recognize her too well.
—
Saturday morning,Thad texts at nine:Brunch at 11? There's a place in the Village I want to try.
He takes me to a trendy bistro with exposed brick and Edison bulbs, and he’s in a better mood than last night. He's more relaxed, and he doesn't push when I order my own food—eggs Benedict and fresh fruit.
He also does most of the talking. My classes don’t feel like a safe topic, so I just listen as he talks about work and his business with my father and his plans for the future.
Our future, he keeps saying, like it's already decided. Like I've already agreed to all of it.
After brunch, we walk through Washington Square Park, and Thad keeps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close against his side. Every few minutes, his hand drifts lower, and I have to subtly redirect it.
"You're tense," he observes. "Everything okay?"
"Just tired. Long week."
"You're working too hard." His hand squeezes my shoulder. "You need to take better care of yourself. Get more sleep. Maybe cut back on some of your coursework."
I glance at him with barely disguised annoyance. "I can't cut back. It's a full-time program."
"I'm just saying, you don't need to push yourself so hard. It's not like you're going to need this degree for anything."
The casual dismissal makes my jaw tighten, but I don't respond. There's no point. We've already had this conversation.
We spend the afternoon wandering, and everywhere we go, Thad's hands are on me—my back, my waist, my hip. It's constant, possessive, and I find myself creating small distances that he immediately closes.
By the time evening comes, I'm exhausted. Not physically—we haven't walked that far—but emotionally. I feel wrung out, like I've been performing for hours and can't quite remember who I'm supposed to be.
Thad suggests dinner, but I make an excuse about needing to work on a paper. He's disappointed, but he doesn't push.
"Tomorrow then," he says. "Before I head back. One more meal together."
"Of course.” I try to sound enthusiastic.
Sunday brunch is easier than Saturday. Thad is already thinking about his flight back to Charleston and the work waiting for him, and he's less focused on me. We eat at a café near my dorm, and the conversation is light and superficial.
When it's time for him to leave, he kisses me goodbye on the street corner. It's possessive, like before, his hand tight on my waist, and I'm aware of people walking past, watching us.
"I'll call you tonight," he says. "I love you."
